The Sword of the Lady

by S. M. Stirling

  Ritva grinned. ″You′re willing to let him do the talking? Must be love.″

  ″Well, yes, but it hasn′t turned my brain to mush, sis,″ she said.

  The Southsider women they′d called drifted in and squatted in front of her, the light of the fire turning their faces ruddy and lying warm on her own back. A few were holding toddlers or nursing babies, which would make her next talk a bit easier. She′d done similar ones with young Rangers . . . but at least they didn′t have to be introduced to the concept of soap. Not most of them, at least—you got some very odd recruits from little hole-and-cranny parts of the Willamette and the mountains southward towards Ashland and the old California border.

  ″Now,″ she said, when they had gathered. ″Remember how I told you the Lady′s Cauldron is the source of everything?″

  At the blank looks, she went on: ″The belly of the Big Strong Bitch? It′s, ah, like a pot. Things come out of it. The whole world, all the people and animals and things.″

  That brought more nods; they′d gotten that much from the talks on the Old Religion, and they were pathetically grateful for a story that made sense of the world as something but malevolence and chaos.

  ″Well, we′re women, you see. So we have a special link to Her. We′re Her made manifest in the world. And like her, we can give or withhold the fertility of our, ummm, pots.″

  Frowns of puzzlement. ″You mean, tell the studs they can′t fuck? They wouldn′t like that,″ one said; she thought it was Jake′s woman.

  A pause, and the Southsider went on: ″I wouldn′t like that.″

  Ritva had enough exposure to the tribe′s dialect now that she could follow it; her mind translated it into more-or-less standard English. And they′d already modified their way of speech a little in return, though it was complicated by the way they did their best to imitate Rudi and Edain.

  ″Ah . . . yes, but not just that. We can give or withhold the gift of children because we′re sovereign . . . because we have . . . ah, because we can do magic like the Big Strong Bitch.″

  ″You mean spook-stuff so you can fuck and not get littles unless we want?″

  ″Yes! Exactly!″

  That brought an eager brabble. The Southsiders lost so many of their children, especially the ones born in the winter, that the thought of spacing them to match the seasons was alluring. From books she′d read in Larsdalen and Stardell Hall, wandering hunters had always done that, even if farmers often didn′t. A woman couldn′t deal with more than one infant who had to be carried at a time. In this as so much else the Southsiders were worse off than the most primitive human tribes of ancient times.

  Eyes went wide as she held up a small coil of copper beads with a dangling silk thread below.

  ″Now, you see how this looks like the sacred serpent I showed you? What you do is put this—″

  THE WILD LANDS (FORMERLY ILLINOIS) NEAR THE RUINS OF CAIRO OCTOBER 1, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD

  ″Like a golden chain, girdling the Earth,

  Is the Unseen Hierarchy of the Ascended Lords . . .″

  ″High Seeker? Master Dalan?″ Major Peter Graber said, as the chanting faded.

  He was glad he′d waited until after the evening prayer to talk to the priest; the sun was down beyond the trees in the west, and it would make their conversation more private. The morale of the Sword of the Prophet was like iron, the men were ready to die as they were commanded . . . but even iron had flaws.

  And I always liked this time of day, he thought inconsequentially.

  The magic blue and green of it, and the slight hush that fell as the breeze died and the birds sang their last, and then the first stars blossoming in the east. Today there was a thin crescent of moon as well, high and ghost-pale southwards. It was a moment when the spirit could fly free. He sighed and returned to the business of the Church . . . which was also the business of the spirit, after all.

  The man who called himself High Seeker Dalan had always been a little more solid-seeming than the most of his kind, who usually looked gaunt and scrawny. Right after the fight in Dubuque this one had been like a ghost for days, eating and drinking if you put food in his hands, but otherwise motionless.

  Now he just looks like he′s dying, instead of already dead, Graber thought.

  He fought down resentment at how many of his men had died on this trip; he′d crossed the border into the Sioux territories with two hundred effectives. Currently he had eighty-four . . . and that included two men who probably wouldn′t recover.

  The burden he bears for the Ascended Masters is far higher than mine.

  ″We must consult,″ he went on.

  A jerky nod. ″Yes. Come.″

  The bitter smoke of the burnt ship drifted this far, but he didn′t think the crews of the Iowan warships would pursue; the ruins of Cairo weren′t far away, and they′d already had a brush with an Eater band. They′d also shot several deer, fat with autumn, and a wild pig, and the carcasses of the beasts were roasting and stewing with foraged herbs and roots as the leaders talked. He judged the men were cheerful enough, except for the handful of Iowan converts; the Sword of the Prophet was always tasked with the most difficult missions, including the ones where death was almost certain. They knew as well as he that their lifestreams would be bright among the Ascending Hierarchy if they fell in the Church′s service.

  His stomach rumbled at the smell of the meat, and the scent of wheat cakes cooking on the griddles, but he ignored it; a man of the CUT learned to command the flesh by the power of the atman, though only the adepts had the ultimate mastery. The soulless were the slaves of their Sthula-Sarira, the gross and merely material body, which meant they were little more than walking corpses. One more sign that their only reason for existence was to serve the True Spirit and the community of believers.

  ″Hail Maitreya!″ he began, when they′d walked a little way from the fires—but well within his perimeter of hidden scouts.

  The blessing was always a safe opening gambit with the clergy.

  ″Master Dalan?″ he went on.

  ″Hail . . . to the Youth of Sixteen Summers.″

  The priest made the proper reply, his voice starting out rusty, as if he was remembering how to speak.

  ″We have to decide what to do, High Seeker,″ Graber said carefully. ″Should we try to push through to this Nantucket place and wait for the soulless misbelieving sons of the Nephilim? Or should we try to intercept the enemy again?″

  They′d tried that and failed repeatedly, though by narrow margins. Graber wasn′t particularly disturbed; if you kept trying, eventually you either succeeded or died. He hadn′t died yet. The High Seeker′s head turned to the north, as if his bruised-looking eyes were probing through the substance of the densely wooded hills.

  ″They may try to take the northern route,″ he said. ″They will not come up the Ohio, not when we might be waiting for them.″

  Graber waited. That was a military judgment, and as such it was his to make. As it happened, he agreed. Catching Artos has been like trying to grab an oiled rattlesnake with his bare hands; nearly impossible, and deadly dangerous when you finally did it. And the others with him were nearly as bad. Not least, they all had a damnable talent for getting locals to fight for them.

  ″Bring me a prisoner,″ Dalan said.

  The officer turned his head and barked a command. Soon two of his troopers frog-marched one of the Eater captives between them. He had his hands tied before him, and a sheathed shete thrust through between his elbows and back; they steered him with it. Graber′s nose wrinkled; everyone smelled after a while in the field—this was the first opportunity they′d had to boil water in some time—but the savage was rank even by the standards a soldier learned. Worse than a High Line cowboy in midwinter.

  A crude loincloth and the leggings held to it by thongs were his only clothing. For the rest he was an unexceptional man, perhaps in his twenties though looking older with his shaggy hairiness and ground-in dirt; the hair an
d beard were brown, the eyes a hazel green. Scrawny and not very tall, but that was to be expected.

  The High Seeker held up his personal amulet, worn on his left wrist and studded with amethyst, symbol of the Seventh Ray. He murmured something: Graber caught the name of Djwal Khul, a great lord of the Ascending Hierarchy who dealt with communication and knowledge.

  ″Possibilities increase exponentially,″ the High Seeker said . . . in a normal conversational tone, but as if to himself. ″Capacity to affect foam linkages and tap base energy is greater but so is need.″

  Good that he is not talking to me, Graber thought. I do not understand and do not wish to. Hail Serapis Bey! I serve the Fourth Ray. The Church also needs those who can deal with the material.

  ″But amplification and modulation are necessary. Interaction requires perception. Contaminated. So many possibilities.″

  He smiled at the prisoner, and the man screeched like some small animal caught in a trapper′s toothed steel. His hands went out to grip either side of the captive′s face, forcing him to meet his eyes, and the troopers stepped away.

  ″I . . . see . . . you . . . forever,″ he said.

  The prisoner screamed again, and the guards stepped back farther in involuntary recoil, like men who find themselves clutching something in the dark and feel the wriggling of too many legs. After a moment Dalan screamed back at his victim, in the same pitch of hopeless pain. Graber swallowed as trails of blood started from the corners of the Eater′s eyes, trickling like red tears into the scabrous beard, glittering in the firelight. After a time that seemed to last forever Dalan′s sound became words:

  ″Bitch! Bitch! Deva, die without dying! You and your he-whore! And the One who sent you!″

  He released the prisoner and staggered away, moaning, clenched fists slapping at the sides of his head; yet he was grinning, licking his lips. When the shuddering ceased he straightened.

  ″They are traveling north. Water. Intention is to the east. I see forests, ice, wolves. Beasts. Beasts. We will pursue. Now it must rest. There is no replacement and it must not be stressed beyond failure point.″

  The High Seeker turned and lay down on his bedroll, and closed his eyes. What followed did not look like sleep; it was more as if the adept had been suspended, somehow. The troopers remained shock-still, because the captive was moving now. Not trying to escape; instead he knelt by a stretch of frost-heaved concrete and began to beat his head against it. The tock . . . tock . . . tock sound was like a hammer on hard wood, as regular as a carpenter′s. Graber made a gesture with one hand; the man who′d used his shete to control the prisoner stepped forward, set his hand to the hilt and stripped the steel free of the leather. It swung in a brief glinting arc, and there was a final sound—heavier and wetter than bone on stone.

  ″Get rid of this carrion,″ Graber snapped. ″Vender, Roberts,″ he went on to his two chief surviving lieutenants. ″The maps.″

  They joined him where he sat on a log; a trooper brought them plates of stew and wheat cakes as they discussed distances and times.

  ″We′ll need horses,″ Roberts said, tracing the length of what had once been Illinois from south to north. ″It′s an impossible distance to cover on foot in any useful time.″

  ″It could be done,″ Graber said; though few men from the High West would think so. ″But the tribes around here have some mounts and those in the prairies to the north have more. Say a week to accumulate what we need to start with . . .″

  He paused. ″What is the date?″

  ″October first, sir.″

  ″Ah.″ He smiled, an expression that softened the iron slab-and-angle of his face for an instant.

  The other two men looked at him, puzzled. He explained briefly:

  ″My eldest son′s birthday. He will be ten today, in Corwin.″

  They nodded. ″Old enough to begin training in the House of the Prophetic Guard, as we all did, if he′s found worthy,″ Roberts said.

  His voice was a little wistful. He had nothing but daughters, and all those were very young.

  ″He will be. My wives are women of excellent character, and Peter studies hard,″ Graber said firmly. ″Now, if we can acquire two remounts per man, we can begin. The horses will be of low quality.″

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FREE REPUBLIC OF RICHLAND SHERIFFRY OF READSTOWN (FORMERLY SOUTHWESTERN WISCONSIN) OCTOBER 8, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD

  ″Getting close,″Ingolf said, rubbing a hand down the neck of his mount. ″Soo, Boy, soo,″ he said to the horse. ″You′ll get a good feed here, even if you were foaled in Nebraska.″

  Rudi Mackenzie nodded, tactfully ignoring the slight hoarseness in the other man′s voice, as if he were choking back unexpected tears; Ingolf′s face was an iron mask locked against a surge of feeling.

  A Mackenzie—any who were Changelings, at least—would weep, returning home after so long, Rudi thought. But customs differ from land to land, and so do the stamp they set on our souls. Wouldn′t it be a duller world, if they did not, so?

  It was a bright fall afternoon, comfortable but with an underlying nip to it. This was farm-and-forest country, but you could tell that the North Woods started not so far away, and that the Wheel of the Year was turning towards the Crone′s dominion, in a land harsher than Oregon—

  Than Montival, he reminded himself; it was growing natural.

  As they rode north along the valley of the Kickapoo from the hamlet at Soldier′s Grove the fields had quickly gone back to scrub and saplings, the usual story of more land than the survivors of the Change had means or reason to till when they no longer used machines to feed cities far away. But for the last hour or two the signs of human habitation had grown thicker again, first the chewed look of land used for rough summer grazing, then fields and the odd farmhouse behind its berm and ditch and barbed wire or palisade.

  Often there was a wary twinkle of spearheads from the defenses or a fighting platform built atop an old silo, or the sight of livestock being driven up the slope of the land towards the woods; just what you′d expect from sensible folk when scores of armed strangers passed by. That alarm diminished as they went, until men and a few women came out to watch them pass with no more than a little caution . . . and weapons in their hands.

  Then Ingolf laughed aloud as they came upon a man-high oak stump not far from the road. It was roughly carved into the shape of a naked big-nosed troll, but despite the crude work you could see a look of ineffable self-satisfaction on its face and in the way its hands folded across a swag belly; from the weathering and moss, it was at least a decade old and perhaps more. In Mackenzie or Bearkiller territory Rudi would have thought it a roadside shrine, but he doubted that was the purpose here and looked a question at the Readstown man.

  ″I did that,″ Ingolf said, a chuckle still in his voice. ″Well, me and Bert Kuykendall and Carl Heisz and Will Uhe, when we were all about twelve. It′s the spitting image of old Bossman Al, Al Clements. He came up from Richland Center that year, doing a tour of his Sheriffs′ homeplaces. We snuck out and worked on it after dark, kept it under a pile of brush until the day, and he went right past it and turned . . . what′s that color, sort of like purple . . .″

  ″Puce,″ Mary Havel put in, sharing her man′s good humor.

  ″Yah, puce. Dad wore out a hickory switch on Bert and Carl and Will, and two more on me for setting a bad example, but it was worth sitting down careful for a while. Surprised Ed didn′t have it cut down; he isn′t . . . wasn′t . . . much of a man for a joke.″

  ″Why didn′t your father do just that and take an ax to it, if he was angry, and it annoyed his overlord?″

  ″He wouldn′t give Clements the satisfaction. Never liked the man. I think he laughed about it to himself, despite the merry hell he gave all four of us. Dad was a hard man on his sons, but he expected us to push back at him. Wanted it too, I think.″

  ″Ah, and are you also thinking those three friends of your youth will be there to greet you?″ R
udi said.

  The smile died. ″All dead now. Will put a pitchfork through his foot while he was loading manure that year. He was always a dreamy sort. Got lockjaw, poor bastard.″

  ″A hard passing,″ Rudi said sympathetically, nodding; they′d had drugs for that in the old days, but . . .

  Ingolf shrugged. ″What way isn′t? Unless someone hits you on the head with an ax when you′re not expecting it. Bert and Carl volunteered for the Sioux War and left home with me . . . Bert got an arrow in the eye a couple of weeks later. We weren′t even to Marshall yet and he wasn′t eighteen when it happened—night attack, just dumb bad luck and our not knowing what the fuck we were doing. Carl was bushwhacked by Eaters in Boston, that last salvage trip east my Villains made. But we collected the head-price for him, and piled the ears on his grave.″

  Rudi nodded again; he′d have expected no less; Ingolf wasn′t a man to let a comrade go unavenged.

  ″Ritva, Mary,″ he said. ″Ride ahead and see to our welcome.″

  He reached into his saddlebag and held out a large envelope.

  ″They′ll have had scouts watching, unless Ed′s let things slip,″ Ingolf said. ″And odds are someone came ahead when we got off the ship and said who we were and where we were going; they′d have gotten here yesterday, riding fast and switching horses. You can′t drag this many people through the countryside tactfully, but nobody′s looking too upset over us. They must have some idea who we are.″

  ″To be sure. But I′m thinking it′s best to be formal.″

  ″With my brother Ed? Yah, you betcha. Always was a stickler.″

  The twins reined around; Ritva took the envelope and Mary paused for an instant to reach out and touch Ingolf′s hand before she leaned forward and brought her Arab mare, Rochael, up to a canter with a shift of balance.

  Rudi waited for another fifteen minutes of travel amid the stuttering clop of scores of hooves, creak of saddle and harness, grind of wheels and the thud as one rose and fell over a rock in the roadway, then threw up his clenched right fist. The long caravan came slowly to a halt behind him, with a squeal of brakes and a neighing of horses and curses in two languages and several dialects. There were six big wagons there, and nearly a hundred folk.